asw (256)
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: <html><head></head>Nathaniel can't scrub his space free of him. One-sided slash. Crap. Complete crap. Written for Amandaaaaaaaa.</html>


**Author's Note: Written for Amandaaaaaaaa. Sorry it's craptastic, uncoordinated, disjointed crap, dude. Sorry it took so long too, Imma busy as fuck. Sorry it's all mangled too. I dunno what happened, I'm worthless crap. ****Takes place after Layers of Ouabain just for the hell of it. Like, directly after. ****But this is still like one thing and whatnot, so like, that doesn't have to be read to understand this nor does it really have any bearing on how the following text accumulates.**

**Also falls into continuity with I Have Two Shadows because I am uncreative shit. Abuse hinted at, but not focused on. **

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry," Nathaniel murmurs as he stands up as well. Now that the hysteria has trickled out of him, he's just deflated and abashed. "That was irrational, I know. It's difficult to explain..." He hasn't had a panic attack in years, but the criteria hasn't changed. This one has left nits in his veins, his capillaries, the marrow in his bones. He'll stress to keep them from hatching later, for now he nurses wounded pride and gazes at Lysander apologetically.<p>

"Sorry?" echoes Lysander. "No, no, Nathaniel, don't be sorry. You don't have to explain anything. Are you sure you're alright now?" He touches Nathaniel's arm, fingers lightly curling over his elbow.

"I'm sure. Thanks...Again." His smile doesn't feel natural on his face, but it's not forced either. It doesn't feel natural because he feels like it shouldn't be.

Lysander lets go of his arm. "Alright. If you want to talk, or anything, I'm not very far."

Nathaniel doesn't want to talk. He's as insular as he's ever been and packing his problems up in mental boxes for storage. He'll have to sort through them eventually, but when he does, he'll do it on his own. Nevertheless, he appreciates the sentiment. He tells Lysander so and goes to his next class like nothing happened.

.

He's in the student council room, trying to figure out who the killer is in his latest read (he's leaning toward the quiet girl who hasn't been paid much attention to, it doesn't seem like she had a motive yet, but she was the last person to see the victim alive and she's so preposterously genial) when Lysander steps over the threshold.

"Hey, Nathaniel?"

Nathaniel raises his eyes and lowers the book. "Yes?" He hopes Lysander isn't going to bring up what transpired last week. He doesn't think he is, because they've shared 'hellos' and 'how are yous' since then, and Lysander just doesn't strike him as someone who would push that personal button in the first place. Still, he's learned to be wary.

"Would you be interested in drumming at my friend's party? We'll have two weeks to practice and you'll get paid."

Uneasiness bleeds out of Nathaniel's stomach and consideration takes its place. He'd had fun last time. He'd felt exhilarated, carefree for a hot second and surprisingly completely unperturbed by being the cynosure of the evening. Even so, he'd pissed his parents off in between then and now, and the smarter thing to do would be to avoid stepping on their toes with any more frivolities.

But the look Lysander is giving him is hard to resist. Subtle urging molded into the curve of his mouth, a knowing glint in patient eyes.

"Will I have to deal with Castiel?" Nathaniel did it for the school, but he's not sure he'll do it for some friend of Lysander's, even if it does come with money.

(Oh, he's just lying to himself again, he knows he will. He likes drumming more than he should and he needs a reprieve from his unsafe-ly safe schedule, and Lysander's stare is remarkably convincing, and he feels he owes him a favor anyway. He's going to say yes)

"You will."

"And he knows you're asking me?" Because last time he'd yelled at Lysander for a heated fifteen minutes straight, which bothered Nathaniel just a bit even if Lysander hadn't seemed fazed by it.

"He'll find out if you say you're interested." And there's an undercurrent to that velvet voice that just confirms that Lysander knows he _is_ interested.

"I'll try my best," Nathaniel says, beaming.

.

Castiel doesn't yell this time. He just takes one look at Nathaniel, face promptly crumpling as though he's been informed his wisdom teeth need pulling, turns to Lysander and simply growls, "Why?"

"Why not?" Lysander counters cooly.

And Nathaniel knows Castiel knows that Lysander knows very well _why not_, but the redhead settles for grumbling and irascible glowers toward the both of them. Nathaniel considers throwing another drumstick at his head. But he knows better than that, knows not to use the same trick twice. It can only pass as an accident once.

They hold practice in the school basement again, despite this being an unrelated endeavor. It's a convenient location for all of them and the acoustics down there are good.

Though Nathaniel is still a novice drummer by all means, he finds that his reunion with the occupation is a moment to be cherished. He missed it even more than he thought he did, despite his drumming experience being a brief one. He doesn't know how to explain this, even to himself. Maybe it's something in the muscle memory. Maybe it's the spiteful part of him that relishes that his parents would disapprove (but for once, he's willing to bet this strange bliss is of a nature untainted by his own quiet cynicism). Maybe it's knowing that he's going to make someone happy when he gets it right.

He wonders if this uncanny passion is similar to the way Lysander and Castiel feel about their respective elements. He thinks he might ask the former later...And then he realizes that he'll sound like the biggest imbecile and the words wither behind his lips. He mentally laughs at himself. It must show.

Lysander sees his expression, blinks and closes his notebook. "Is something funny?"

Nathaniel just shakes his head.

.

By their sixth practice, Nathaniel's parents are already asking where he's going after school. It'd better not be anywhere ridiculous; he'd better not be wasting his time, the boxing is already a hobby they so generously tolerate, he better not be getting distracted when he has his studies to work on, etc.

"I'm not going anywhere," assures Nathaniel. "There's just a lot of work to do after school." More or less the truth. He tends to stay after anyway, just not as late as he's been as of late.

"It seems like you do more work than some of those teachers," his father replies pointedly.

"Doesn't it?" Nathaniel's smile is so artificial it feels real.

"If that was backtalk—"

"Oh no, it was agreement."

"And what have I told you about interrupting when I'm speaking?" His tone heightens with warning.

"Sorry."

The word is only reflex, Nathaniel's tired of being sorry.

.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" Lysander asks when practice concludes.

Nathaniel's got adrenaline singing through his veins and callouses forming on his hands and he's sure he could keep going all night.

"Can't," replies Castiel. "Neighbors asked me to keep an eye on their brats while they go to dinner." He's already locking his guitar in its case and getting up to leave.

"Oh yes, you did mention that earlier. I forgot. And you, Nathaniel?" Lysander nods a goodbye to Castiel and then glances to him.

For a moment, Nathaniel blanks. He hadn't realized he'd been included in the offer. "Uh...I don't have any money on me right now."

Lysander's lips quirk up in a little smile. "It's my treat."

"Is that really okay?" Nathaniel questions tentatively. He has a complex relationship with freeloading. He doesn't believe anything is free truly, but on a less intellectual level he just doesn't like what freeloading says about one's character. It's fine when it's between close friends or family, he supposes, or better yet, when the freeloader in question finds a way to utilize an adversary's funds, but he's on a friendly-neutral level with Lysander.

It just doesn't feel appropriate.

"Just don't order the lobster," answers Lysander, gaze gleaming with jest.

"Alright." Nathaniel smiles, reservations gradually melting away.

What he does order is a panini. They could've taken the bus, but both he and Lysander preferred walking. They would be slothful, taking the bus when they're both perfectly capable of walking and the weather is as nice as it is. He and Lysander talked about it before they decided on a place to eat. They settled on this decent cafe just a few streets up from the school, where they can sit outside.

The breeze whispers the promise of summer and strokes warm fingers through Nathaniel's hair as he sips his water. His shoulders slacken with ease and when he sees the closed-lipped smile of contentment on Lysander's lips, he suddenly realizes he's wearing one to match.

"Thanks for this," he tells him earnestly.

"You're welcome."

"It'll be my treat next time," he says this without thinking and blinks, bemused. He hardly ever says anything without thinking.

Lysander breathes a chuckle. "I'll hold you to that."

Nathaniel savors every bite. It's the bread, he's thinking, that makes this a really kick-ass panini. He can't remember the last time he's had bread that tasted so fresh, and he'd bet money that it wasn't baked any earlier than an hour ago. The tomato tastes fresh too, and the ham is sliced thinly and free of any chewiness.

Lysander seems to notice his giddy taste buds and breaks into a grin. "They make good ones here, don't they?"

Nathaniel nods as he swallows. "Excellent."

.

"Sorry," says Castiel, terse. "Gonna bail today and go home."

Though Nathaniel has never particularly cared for his presence and gladdens at the thought of an evening with even less of it, this strikes him as peculiar. Castiel cares for his just as little, is perhaps even more irked with mindset that Nathaniel is crowding into the music scene that belonged to him first, and he hasn't missed a single practice yet. If he's skipping now, it must be for a hell of a reason.

"Is your stomach still bothering you?" Lysander asks, voice gentle with concern as he puts a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"It's killing me when I move." The admission is rough, as strained as a screen-door swinging on rusty hinges. This is what sets the little alarm bells off in Nathaniel's head. Because Castiel admitting to pain to Lysander is one thing, but Castiel admitting to pain in front of Nathaniel is just not right.

"You look unwell," attests Lysander. "Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop?"

Nathaniel looks Castiel over. He looks like hell. His posture is sharp and inelastic with discomfort, one hand cupped to his right side, skin sallow, eyes as bright as bonfires in the dark. Nathaniel should leave it alone, but something just picks at his brain. Where has he seen this before? Is this...?

_No_, he tells himself. _No way._

But to Castiel, he asks, "How long has this been bothering you?"

"All fucking day," replies Castiel, each syllable as grating as breaking glass on gravel.

"Did the pain start around your navel?" He's still thinking _no_ and now Lysander's looking to him with brows worriedly narrowed.

"Mm." It's more of a groan than confirmation. The fact that it's not a coarse demand for Nathaniel to stop playing twenty questions or anything of the like is nearly as jarring.

Nathaniel turns to Lysander, a detached kind of shock inflating behind his breastbone. "Uh...That seems like appendicitis..."

Alarm electrocutes Lysander's features and Castiel's waver uncertainly for a heartbeat before he pins Nathaniel with a pained glare. "Nat, if you're fucking with me, I swear—"

"I'm not! It happened to Amber when she was thirteen, I know what it looks like."

"I don't have a car," Lysander gasps, shaking like a toothpick supporting the weight bowling ball with eyes so wide Nathaniel can see the whites all around and the infinitesimal webs of veins twitch. "Nathaniel, I know you get dropped off in the morning, we need to call an ambulance, where's my phone!?" His words are all crashing into each other as he whisks around in a little half-circle, patting himself down to find it, and making this throaty noise of panic when he doesn't. "I forgot my phone!"

This is something Nathaniel never, ever would've guessed he'd see: Lysander panicking. Up until now, he hadn't known such a thing was even possible. Nathaniel left his own phone in his locker, but before he can dart up the stairs, Castiel fumbles his out of his pocket and Lysander practically snatches it from him. He does call for an ambulance, but he's so rattled he has to repeat the address three times before the dispatcher apparently understands him.

Castiel's completely washed out, shellshocked. The look he gives Nathaniel is probably trying to be angry, but it's just disconcerted. "If you're wrong about this, I'm going to kill you."

"For your sake I hope I am," Nathaniel replies and doesn't realize how severe it sounds until Castiel's expression just falls off his face. This situation is a minefield.

"Should we go upstairs?" asks Lysander, eyes frantically darting around like he expects to find the solution on the walls. "Are you even okay to go upstairs?"

"Now it's not exactly on my list of priorities, no," Castiel says, looking to the stairs with pain written into every contour of his body. "Hey, do me a favor and quit freaking out. I'm the one who should be freaking out, you're supposed to tell me I'll be fine."

"You'll be fine," Lysander obliges apologetically.

Castiel nods and glances to Nathaniel, sucking his lip through his teeth. "So...They just take it out before it bursts, right?"

"That's how it went with Amber." Nathaniel nods. "She got to come home the very next day, so this isn't going to give you a free pass to skip the chemistry test on Thursday." She didn't come back to school for another six days, but Nathaniel feels like steering the topic is a good idea.

"Fuck the test, I'm getting an organ taken out."

"A useless one. The appendix doesn't do anything, it won't effect you. You should study. Obviously I don't care if you fail, but you should care if you fail." This conversation couldn't be stranger if they were having it on Mars.

Castiel scowls and leaves it at that, slipping his headphones on and leaning back against the wall. Lysander is as fidgety as a horse before it spooks. The moment just dangles there, uneasy silence until Nathaniel decides to go outside and study from his notes, to be standby there to direct paramedics to the basement. It's funny how a mundane day can get so eventful so fast.

Or maybe it's not.

.

Nathaniel didn't go along for the ride. There was only enough room for Lysander and frankly, he wouldn't have wanted to go, he would've just felt morally obligated to in the event there had been enough room. He finds out the next day that Castiel is fine from Lynn, as he's updated his Facebook status. It's not like Nathaniel was pulling his hair out or anything, he doesn't care remotely enough for that level of apprehension, but it is better to know than not to know.

Normalcy resumes as easily as it was suspended. Nathaniel has to make copies of the art club's new schedule and pass them out, then he has to organize the—

"Nathaniel?"

He glances over to see Lysander hesitating in the doorway and blinks dubiously. "Hi. Is there something I can help you with?"

Lysander strides in and abruptly hugs Nathaniel. Just like that he gathers him up and squeezes gently, wavy forelock tickling Nathaniel's cheek. Nathaniel is stunned into speechlessness, his thoughts scattering.

"Thank you," Lysander gasps softly.

"'Thank you?'" Nathaniel echoes in bafflement. "Um...What exactly are you thanking me for?"

"If you hadn't said anything, I would've let him go home," replies Lysander, voice as taut as a bowstring and strained with compunction. His arms tighten around Nathaniel, fingers clenching into the fabric of his shirt.

Oh. _Oh._

He's really shaken up.

Nathaniel isn't used to being hugged, nor is he particularly skilled at comfort, but he tries. He returns the embrace with one arm and awkwardly pats Lysander on the back. "He's fine now, isn't he?"

Lysander finally lets go and steps back, nodding. "He's fine."

"That's all that matters then." Nathaniel briefly touches Lysander's shoulder, hoping to give back some of the warmth that lingers in the wrinkles of what was a pristine shirt.

Lysander nods again and exhales a weighted breath.

"You're going to see him after school, right?"

"Of course."

"Then here." Nathaniel shuffles back and picks up his black notebook from the table, flipping to the pages he's marked with bright green stick-on tabs. He holds it out to Lysander. "These are my notes. I've already gone through them and reread them, so I'm confident. You and Castiel can use them. He'll have to retake the test when he comes back and you should study too." No, Nathaniel may not be great at comforting shaken souls, particularly not the ones shaken over hospitalized foes, but he can offer this much.

He can offer a shade of compassion in crisp blue ink. It's not enough (he can't do what Lysander did for him, he's not sure he could ever repay that kindness, even if he weren't trying to forget the whole thing), but it's what he has to give. And the chemistry test is worth, well, seventy-five points. It could definitely tip one's overall grade, especially this late in the semester.

Lysander takes the notebook and glances down to the pages. He looks back to Nathaniel, a small smile unfurling on his lips and softening the margins of his gravity.

"Thank you, Nathaniel. I misplaced my own notes, but I'll make sure that these get back to you."

Lysander loses his own things every five minutes. From a logical standpoint, Nathaniel shouldn't trust in this. He's not sure why he chooses to.

After school, Nathaniel practices even though he's by himself. Alone or not, the acoustics are still good and the drum kit is still there. He drinks up the release, the repetition, the tempo. For once he's at ease with his own nascence and this is a kind of state of being he wasn't sure existed and figured if it did, it couldn't be felt guiltlessly.

It can.

.

"Myria understands. I'll sing anyway, but it'll just be me and the microphone." An unspoken apology ghosts through the silence.

Nathaniel feels it's unnecessary. It's not like it's Lysander's fault, or even Castiel's for that matter. Castiel in fact insisted that he'd play despite the orders to take things slow, but naturally, Lysander wasn't hearing any of that. With the party tomorrow, there's just not enough time for Lysander to find a replacement.

"You can still come if you want," Lysander adds.

Nathaniel pauses, surprised. He didn't expect that, it's not as if he knows any of these people. Drumming for them was one thing, an occupation, a reason to be there with payment promised, but tagging along with Lysander just because...?

He's not sure. He knows he'd feel out of place. Especially considering Lysander's friends are in college. Not to mention the fact that he wonders what that might mean. One time Amber snuck out to go to this college party and she ended up getting caught because she had to call for a ride home. Somehow one couch had ended up on fire and another was stuck halfway out of the dorm window. That had been the only time she'd really gotten in trouble for anything recently, and he'd gotten in even more trouble because she'd spilled that he'd known she was leaving and hadn't said anything about it.

Though Nathaniel's not sure Lysander's friends with the kind of people who set couches on fire. Granted he doesn't know Lysander that well...And Lysander is friends with Castiel, who Nathaniel wouldn't put it past to do something just as asinine...

"I...Well...I don't know...I don't usually, um, frequent these, uh, events," Nathaniel replies ineloquently.

"Fair enough, but it's probably not what you think it's going to be." Lysander smiles. "Myria's president of the slam poetry club. They just got enough members to book the room they wanted to, and she's celebrating that. This is likely going to be a lax poetry slam with more downtime and food. I highly doubt there's going to be any alcohol or anyone in a toga."

"Wait...We had a gig at a poetry slam?" Nathaniel raises a brow.

"A _lax_ poetry slam," Lysander enunciates, his smile broadening and showing his teeth, amusement twinkling in his gaze. "Myria's always been a little eccentric."

Nathaniel chuckles softly and shrugs. "Well alright, I guess I'll go. I had plans to be there anyway. But you're sure I won't be imposing?"

"I'm positive."

.

Nathaniel isn't exactly sure why he goes. Maybe it's just because he did already have plans to be there. Maybe it's because he has nothing better to do. Maybe it's because he likes listening to Lysander sing.

The lights are dim and there are candles scattered throughout the room, some on the floor, which he finds highly unsafe. Artificial scents of apples and orchids waif up from the melting wax and spread throughout the room (though Nathaniel can still detect a whiff of marijuana under them) and he reclines into the overstuffed couch. He hangs onto the way Lysander's euphony carries, the way lyrics seamlessly flow from his lips in vicuna soft timbres. Drops of serenity fall from his voice and spill into the ambience.

"Good, isn't he?" whispers the girl sitting next to him. She's got dark skin and dark eyes, darker freckles smattering her cheeks and shoulders, and her nose is pierced with a shiny stud. Lysander introduced her as Toni.

"Very," Nathaniel agrees. He would genuinely pay for a CD if Lysander had one, but the day he openly tells him that is the day pigs sprout wings.

There's a lull between Lysander's conclusion and the start of the slam. A lull of mingling and iced tea and this garlicky hummus and Nathaniel realizes he doesn't feel nearly as out of place as he thought he would. Lysander's friends are unusual people and if anything, what sets him apart is that he's so average by comparison, but it's like that doesn't matter at all because everyone is relaxed.

"Can I read your palm?" Toni asks. "I'm a bit of an amateur palm reader."

Nathaniel tilts his head and ponders. He doesn't really believe in palm reading or psychic phenomena, or anything of the sort, but he's in a good mood and her smile is playful, so he offers his hand. "Sure."

She grins and spreads his fingers, the tips of hers featherlike as they skim the creases of his palm. "Oh look, you have a fate line. Not everyone has one of those."

"What's that mean?" Just because he doesn't believe in any of it doesn't mean he isn't a little curious. Besides, he'd be rude if he didn't indulge her.

"Well yours shows that you're a person with ambitions. Your life line is forked at the beginning, and that tells me your dependable. Hmm. Your heart line touches your life line here...You're in for heartbreak." She tsk-tsks sympathetically, somber gaze flickering up to hold his.

Nathaniel's lips part softly. He doesn't even know what to say to this, but thankfully an oblivious Lysander sits down and interrupts before he has to.

"Do you know what's going into the building across the street? I saw a ba—" he cuts himself off when he sees Nathaniel's hand in Toni's. "Sorry."

"I actually just finished his reading." She nods to Nathaniel with the remnants of apology clinging to her smile and lets go. "And I heard it's going to be a furniture store."

"That's convenient, if the couch ever catches on fire," breathes Nathaniel, irresistibly thinking back to Amber's escapade. This earns him bewildered looks and he feels his cheeks flare hot. "Ahh, there was this thing that happened with my sister..."

They take it in stride and the conversation branches into the sibling stories they all have and eventually ends on a note about cheesecake before the slam starts. It's a free for all, not set in order and no competition, and Nathaniel could take a crack at it if he wanted to, but he doesn't. He's already stepped far enough out of his comfort zone. He's content watching. Lysander is too.

Nathaniel asks him about it later, when they've left and they're walking along the sidewalk beneath the pale glow of humming streetlights.

"It's just not my forte. I prefer sonnets and traditional forms of the like as far as my own contribution to poetry goes." Lysander tips his head back, his jonquil eye to Nathaniel and looking almost a rust orange in the lighting, deep blue shadows flickering with his gait. "I could call Leigh to come pick us up, if you want. With how late it is, I'm sure we missed the last bus."

"What time is it?"

"A quarter after two."

Nathaniel gasps. _Time flew by fast._ He wouldn't have even guessed it was anywhere in the after-midnight range.

Lysander looks back to him, doubt swimming in his orbs. "Is that a problem?"

"My parents aren't going to be happy with me." Nathaniel averts his gaze to a moth that flutters toward the streetlight, looking like a giant among the cluster of gnats. "But that's okay...This was fun. It's a really nice night too, so I'm fine with walking if you don't want to call your brother."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself." Lysander's lips spread and his teeth glitter silver. "I'm inclined to walk myself. As you said, it's a nice night."

It is indeed.

.

The following Monday, Lysander catches him in the hallway before classes.

"I forgot to return this to you," he says with a trace of apology, holding out Nathaniel's notebook.

Nathaniel meant to ask him about that, he's glad it hadn't ended up lost. "Thanks." He takes it and he feels Lysander's stare fall on his gauze taped fingers even before he glances back to him and sees it linger.

Before Lysander can ask, Nathaniel answers. "I burned myself on the stove. Heh, it probably wasn't the best idea to try to make hash browns when I was still half-asleep." He plasters on a smile.

"That's unfortunate," murmurs Lysander. There's a message in a bottle coasting through his bicolored depths and Nathaniel can't pluck it out and read it, but he still has the uneasy feeling Lysander knows it's only a half-truth. "Does it hurt?"

Maybe the question is laced with another meaning. Maybe Nathaniel's just being paranoid. Either way, the answer is the same. "It was worse before, now it's fine."

Lysander inclines his head. "Thanks again for the notes. Your penmanship is very neat."

"I try." He lightly taps his fingernails to the notebook's backing.

.

"Do you like crêpes?" Nathaniel asks.

"I do." Lysander peeks at him from the corner of his eye.

"I have coupons for the crêperie that don't expire until next Friday and I still owe you for that panini." It's been nearly a month since Lysander treated him, and Nathaniel still hasn't returned the favor. He isn't really wild about crêpes himself. The dessert ones are so rich and oozing with sweetness, just looking at them makes his teeth hurt. He finds the savory ones to be decent though. Not his favorite food, but something filling and palatable.

"I'm not doing anything after school. Unless you're busy." Lysander faces him, head tilted.

"I'm not busy." Nathaniel's lips briefly tweak up. He has to study and he wants to tiptoe around his parents' outing later and hit the gym, but he has enough time to spare Lysander a crêpe.

Which he does.

The crêperie is a truck and they have to eat on their feet. There are a few benches scattered about, but they're full and perhaps it's better that way. In Nathaniel's experience, they're usually sticky and unsanitary.

The feeling of summer is starting to overtake that of spring, no breeze to be spoken of and a climbing humidity. The sun shines boldly in a cloudless cerulean sky. There's a fluffy blob of whipped cream on the corner of Lysander's mouth, but just as Nathaniel is about to inform him of this, his tongue pokes out and swipes it back in.

Nathaniel rubs his lips together and tastes Italian sauce. "Doesn't it bother you that that middle schooler follows you home?"

"No," Lysander hums lightly. "Not really."

"That'd make me uncomfortable."

"Nina's harmless." Lysander forks up another bite. "She's sweet, even if she can seem a tad overzealous. I need all the fans I can get if I want to sing professionally, so I can't complain."

Nathaniel clears his throat and looks down to his paper plate. "You can consider me one of those fans," he says quietly.

When he gets the nerve to look up again, Lysander is beaming at him.

.

Nathaniel turns a blind eye to Lysander's gradual plunge into his space. He doesn't acknowledge that he's turning a blind eye to it, doesn't dare to acknowledge that anything is occurring at all.

But something in their dynamic has shifted, they've gone from friendly-neutral to...Something else.

For over a month now, hanging out together has become somewhat of an at least weekly routine. They have longer conversations. Castiel shoots him glares like a junkyard dog possessive of its steak, which is a new development in the range of dirty looks he gives him.

Nathaniel is a solitary person.

He likes quiet and he likes his own space. He's content to spend his time alone with a book. He doesn't need others to fill any void.

People can cause complications. Most of them fail to hold his attention anyway. So when Nathaniel does acknowledge that Lysander's found his way into his space and weaved ribbons of himself through its mesh, he has to pause and wonder why he's letting him.

But the conclusion is simple. Nathaniel likes figuring things out. He likes puzzles, he likes mysteries, and Lysander is a walking enigma.

He hasn't figured him out yet.

He wants to.

.

All it takes is a whiff of pollen for an itch to be blazing through Nathaniel's nostrils. They're at the park and a little girl has just skipped by him with a necklace woven of daisies and a crown to match.

He wheels away from Lysander as a sneeze tears itself from his nose. He rapidly buries it in the crook of his elbow, eyes prickling and welling up with mist. The first sneeze sets off a chain reaction and Nathaniel's eyes are so watery, he can barely see straight as Lysander shepherds him to a park bench.

"Are you alright?"

He bobs his head, grimacing as his sinuses seal themselves off. "You wouldn't happen to have any tissue?"

"No, sorry." Lysander's hand alights on Nathaniel's back, a delicate warmth between his shoulder blades; a butterfly touch.

Suddenly this situation is all too similar to the one he was trying to forget, and Nathaniel has a cruel epiphany. It strikes him like a brass-kunckled punch in the face. He rounds on Lysander, gripping the seat of the bench so tightly his tendons stick out in his forearms, knuckles white.

"Do just humor me because you feel sorry for me?" he demands.

"What?" Lysander recoils as though Nathaniel splashed scalding water on him.

"This. Here." Nathaniel tosses his head. "You've been wasting time with me since my panic attack. Is it out of pity?" His stomach is churning, a rictus contorting his face.

"No," Lysander states firmly. His features steel. "I'm offended you think that little of me. Or of this as 'wasting time.' I appreciate your company. I've been under the impression the feeling was mutual."

The space between them drifts.

"I'm sorry." Relief slackens Nathaniel's grip and guilt is marzipan smothered onto his clumsy tongue. "I just...I'm sorry. The feeling is mutual..."

Lysander measures him up with his gaze and offers a tiny nod, smiles by way of forgiveness.

Nathaniel feels a sunbeam stream in and spill its warmth over his worries.

.

"It's strange. Everyone in my family is allergic to something. Me, pollen. Amber, nuts. My mother, cats." Nathaniel absently rolls his shoulders. "My father, shrimp." _I almost put some in his pasta once_, goes unsaid.

"That is rather odd," Lysander murmurs.

"Are you allergic to anything?"

Lysander ponders, a grin taking flight. "Contemporary vampiric romance novels."

Nathaniel chuckles and gives him a nudge. "Make that the second thing I'm allergic to."

.

"Boxing?" Modest curiosity tints Lysander's tone.

Nathaniel nods. "I took a class in freshman year. I could've continued, but my parents thought it was a waste of money. Now it's just something I do in my spare time. Sometimes Kim practices with me."

"You've never boxed competitively?"

Nathaniel breathes a laugh and shakes his head. "No. My parents would've killed me if I pursued it like that. They don't think so highly of sports, fighting in particular. They say it's for neanderthals who don't have brains to put to use."

"Well, what do _you_ think?" Lysander studies him intently.

"I...I don't know," Nathaniel admits, struggling. No one's asked him what he thought before. He wasn't sure he had an opinion about it one way or the other because it'd never crossed his mind anyone would ask, and how things had turned out was just how things had turned out. It takes him a moment to get his thoughts in order.

"I think I prefer it as a hobby anyway. I'm not sure I have the kind of drive it takes to go compete, even if I really respect the people who do. Besides, boxing in my free time relieves my stress and that's why I enjoy it. If it was an obligation and an opportunity for people to stare at me, it'd probably lose that."

"That's understandable." Lysander's lips curl warmly and Nathaniel gets the absurd sensation that his insides have melted.

"You seem relaxed when you sing," he says.

"I feel at peace then," Lysander replies simply. "Focused. It's always a very personal experience for me." His eyes soften fondly, a tender secret sheathed in heterochromic pools.

"When did you start?" Nathaniel inquires with a slight tilt of the head. Even if Nathaniel doesn't quite understand, Lysander's passion radiates off of him and it's impossible not to absorb any.

"In front of people? Around the end of middle school. Before that, always." Rose tinges his cheeks and his eyes slide away to the clock on the wall.

Nathaniel has never seen Lysander blush before. It takes him by surprise and then, before he can stop himself, he likens Lysander to a bashful kitten with its fur fluffing. He has the sudden urge to reach out and scratch him under the chin, and that's just _wrong_.

His own face goes up in flames.

.

Nathaniel is not attracted to Lysander.

Nathaniel is NOT attracted to Lysander.

No.

He...He isn't like that. He can't be like that.

He tells himself this over and over again, until it becomes a mantra, until every time he sees Lysander there is a background reel that reenforces that _no_, he does _not_ look at him like that, he does not look at _any_ guy like that, but especially _not_ Lysander.

He does—

Lysander suddenly seizes Nathaniel by the shoulders and his pulse quickens to the cadence of a racehorse, heat dunks his stomach, his heart swells—

"You were about to step on that." Lysander nods to the shape on the sand Nathaniel indeed almost trod on, a crab no bigger than an egg with its claws raised in the air.

"I'm lucky you saw that," Nathaniel says and he can barely breathe as Lysander lets go of his shoulders. The gentle pressure of his palms resonates, the trace of his body heat hotter for a mere second in their absence before it fades. Nathaniel's chest is crammed full of his stupid, traitorous, hammering heart.

"Rosa stepped on one the last time we were here." Lysander smiles sheepishly. "To be honest, my sympathies were with the crab— Oh, Nathaniel, it looks like you have sunburn on your face."

"I guess it can't be helped." Nathaniel smiles and it hurts his flaming cheeks. But the sun's not to blame here, no, he'd slathered his face in SPF 35.

They move further down the beach and find a decent spot on the sand. Rosalya's in the shallows, having a playful splash fight with Iris, silken hair flying and supple breasts jiggling. Her swimsuit is a mere scrap of fabric and some ribbon, the skimpiest thing he's ever seen. He shouldn't stare at her breasts, no, of course not, but he should _want_ to.

She's a gorgeous girl and he should have some desire to look at her nearly bare bust.

But he doesn't. Nathaniel's finding his eyes drawn to the shirtless singer beside him. His gaze is magnetically pulled to the chimera wings that spread in ink across shoulder blades, to the toned back that ripples south of them, to the mismatched irises in a thoughtful face.

Nathaniel's gut swirls uneasily, cold spreading under his skin despite the humidity.

.

Nathaniel is horribly, irreparably attracted to Lysander.

Accepting this is like swallowing a nest of wasps, but he can't lie to himself forever. He tried denying it, tried ignoring it, and it just wouldn't work.

Lysander's eaten all of his space and enthralled him along the way.

Nathaniel thinks he hates him for it a little bit, blames him even though it isn't fair. Lysander is none the wiser. Blaming him is easy though, blaming the cause of the effect means that there is at least some logic applied to this situation in one way or another, and Nathaniel needs logic because none of it makes sense.

_He_ doesn't make sense. This changes everything, he doesn't even know what to think of himself anymore. Does this make him gay? Bi? God, his parents would just_ love_ that. That'd be the factor that tips the scale and gets him disowned, burned out of family photos and turned to a hush-hush hot topic for all the gossiping cousins at all the gatherings he'll no longer be welcome to.

But he's not thinking about them, not really. Whatever he is now, he's still himself probably, and himself has never been enough for them anyway.

No, what he's thinking about is grabbing a fistful of wavy silver and pushing his mouth to one that exhales poetry. He could lick the lyrics off his tongue, grip that cravat and tear it free.

The fantasy is burned onto the back of his eyelids and won't go away, no matter how hard he tries to bleach his brain by flooding it with books and schoolwork and other jejune pieces of his life.

"Nathaniel?" Melody peers at him uncertainly. "Are you okay? You've been so quiet lately."

No, he's not okay. He's a wreak with fucked up thoughts and apparently it's starting to show.

"I think the heat's getting to me a little." And the weather is broiling, but that's not the heat he's referring to. He unscrews the cap on his water bottle and takes a long drink, stale water washing through his teeth, replacing tastes that he only wished were there in the first place.

.

"What are you thinking about?" Nathaniel asks softly, because Lysander is still an enigma and one that he doesn't think he quite has the caliber to figure out. Trying to is starting to get very painful.

"Sea turtles."

"Sea turtles?"

Lysander nods, silver-linings playing at his lips. "I have to write a paper about them for class. Not my topic of choice, but it could be worse. I do think it's remarkable how they just know to find their way to the ocean. It's not as if their parents show them, they never even meet."

"Really?" Nathaniel tilts his head, wondering if he can find any excuse to step closer and maybe accidentally brush against him. Has he always been this pathetic? Is Lysander just dragging this part of him out into the open?

"Yes. The mother sea turtle lays her eggs in a nest on the shore, buries them, and then returns to the ocean. She doesn't come back."

Maybe Nathaniel would be happier if his mother buried him in a hole in the sand and left him there. The thought shoves a laugh past his lips, dry and prickly as a tumbleweed.

Lysander gives him a curious look and Nathaniel waves a hand.

"Ah, sorry. I was just thinking of something..."

Lysander's gaze remains on him, contemplative and unwavering as he purses his lips.

Uneasiness spiders up Nathaniel's spine. "Um...What is it?"

"How are you?" Lysander asks, and it could almost be an introduction.

Something in Nathaniel's chest flutters. He licks his lips and looks at Lysander like he hasn't pictured him naked or wondered where all his sensitive spots are.

"Fine...How are you?"

Lysander sighs and glances away, and Nathaniel gets the clenching sense that he has been dismissed.

"Tired, I suppose."

.

Nathaniel realizes that he has romantic feelings for Lysander and not just carnal ones on a Wednesday afternoon, when he's in the middle of trying to figure out why the student council room smells like cold spaghetti.

Lysander pokes his head into the room and turns to Nathaniel, features fixed quizzically. "Did I leave my notebook in here?"

His notebook is in his hand.

His level of obliviousness would annoy Nathaniel if he were anyone other than Lysander, but he's not, so this is cutely comical, endearing. Nathaniel breathes a laugh and points. "You're holding it."

Lysander glances down and notices, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "So I am." He grazes Nathaniel with that smile and innocently drowns him in a typhoon of fondness, dipping his head politely and leaving.

Nathaniel is left agape, defenseless to the abrupt, fierce fervor that guzzles up everything else and hares through his blood. His chest is suddenly so full it hurts. There's only so much space there, it's overcapacity with stunning, terrifying passion and going to burst any second now. Pyretic energy surges through him and he dashes out into the hallway, scrambling after his undoing. His beautiful, beautiful undoing.

"Lysander!"

Lysander turns around...And so do Castiel and Kim, and Violette, and Alexy, and Kentin, and Rosalya, and a horde of students Nathaniel doesn't know personally and he realizes that he's just yelled. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Hallway.

Castiel snickers at him, spiteful glint in his eyes. "Shit, Nat, you on crack?"

"Yes, Nathaniel?" Lysander calmly blinks at him, apparently not minding Nathaniel yelling his name right in the middle of the hallway for all the school to hear.

But Nathaniel is mortified down to his core. Everyone is staring. He's just made a display of himself, and for what?

Was he actually going to impulsively just confess to Lysander? What was he thinking!? He_ wasn't_ thinking. It was a giddy high brought on by raw emotion. He wasn't thinking at all. These feelings aren't mutual. At best, telling Lysander how he felt would've left him rejected and Lysander in an awkward and uncomfortable position as the rejector. At best.

Less than best could actually mean Lysander's disgust. Sure, he's as polite to Alexy as he is to everyone else, but there's a difference between being civil toward a guy who likes guys and being confessed to by a guy who loves you.

At worst, Lysander would hate him.

And they're in the middle of the hallway, students scattered everywhere. Either way, people would overhear. Nathaniel gasps, feeling like he's taken a sledgehammer to his own head. No, he definitely wasn't thinking.

And now..._Everyone_ _is staring._

The nits hatch. His throat tightens, skin prickling with the acute awareness of all the eyes crawling on it. Something knifes between his temples and sweat breaks out on his brow. He tries to swallow only to find that he can't, and everyone is still staring, and his sheer, thoughtless idiocy has him cringing.

Lysander is still looking at Nathaniel expectantly, now with a shade of concern and he realizes with cosmic dread that he's just _standing_ here, dumb as a log, and making things even _worse_ and he, he—

He has to get out of here!

He makes a break down the hall, races all the way to the stairwell that leads to the school roof. He doesn't go up, just shuts himself inside its silence and grips the railing as his panic attack peaks, his breathing set to the furious pace of popping popcorn kernels and limbs shaking despite the flashing furnace heat that's swallowed him whole.

.

Nathaniel doesn't go back to school until the following Monday. He dislikes staying home, but it's preferable to an immediate return after humiliating himself. His parents are stern, but they know how dedicated he is to class one way or another, and didn't doubt when he said he wasn't feeling well.

He keeps his head low and focuses on classwork only; he's got two days' worth to catch up on along with today's assignments, so it should be easy enough. There are a few questionable looks tossed in his direction, a couple of smirks, and maybe a whisper. But for the most part, everybody's moved on from his display. It's old news.

Even he can move on from it now. He was an idiot, it happened, it's over. But he can't move on from what impelled it. He makes an effort anyway. Every time one of those thoughts of Lysander surface, he firmly forces it into a different subject and pretends not to acknowledge the way his blood soars and sears at the same time.

It wouldn't be the first time Nathaniel's tried to avoid his own elephants in the room that isn't. He's doing a rather impressive job of it too, until a wonderful, placid voice says,

"Hi."

Nathaniel drops his pencil and it rolls right off his desk. Lysander picks it up and puts it back.

"Thanks..." Nathaniel timidly looks up to him, swallows hard as his rib cage overflows.

Lysander inclines his head just slightly. "How are you feeling?"

How is he feeling? How is he feeling!? Nathaniel wants to take Lysander's hand and put it over his hammering heart. _Feel that?_ he wants to ask, _Feel how fast it's beating? Feel how hard? Hear it? It only does that for you. A lot of people can make it do a lot of things, but you're the only one who makes it do **that**._

"Better," answers Nathaniel as his eyes shift back to the pencil. "I..I've got a lot to catch up on."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No," Nathaniel replies tersely.

There is a pause like Lysander wants to say something else, something other than 'alright,' but that is the only thing he says before he returns to his seat.

Nathaniel knows if he looks Lysander in the eye and puts his hand over his heart, he'll find a steady beat and that kills him.

.

The closest thing to a cure for Nathaniel's undesired desires is distance, probably. After all, the problem started when Lysander found his way into his space. Keeping him out might be the best thing to do. It's the only solution he can cogitate, so it's the one he uses. He avoids Lysander as best he can, responds with clipped replies when he can't, politely refuses any offers of doing anything outside of school or together in it.

It doesn't help nearly as much as Nathaniel had hoped it would. He...misses him.

It hurts enough that he knows his feelings aren't requited, that this encompassing ardor filling him to the brim has nowhere to spill, it's like a spear to the heart, but missing him hurts too, aches dully and makes him feel brittle.

But if not this, then what is Nathaniel going to do?

This is...Well, probably easier in the long run.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore," he gets out, throat coated in thumbtacks, every syllable slicing on the way out.

Lysander blinks slowly once, twice, and then his features harden. Raising his voice or even getting visibly ruffled isn't Lysander's mode of operation, however, there is a silver tongue behind those lips and Nathaniel (deserves to) expects to get lashed. That isn't what happens.

Lysander turns on his heel and walks away without so much as another word.

Nathaniel looks back to his book with the acrid taste of a dead friendship fresh in his mouth and it's only a matter of seconds before moisture hits the page.


End file.
